Boar War

When it was proposed that the Jindabyne and Clermont Bushpigs clash in a “Bushpig Origin”, all agreed it was a bloody great idea.

Pig Vs Pig
Images: Matt Cleary

This is how they should sort out wars. Israelis and Palestinians, for example, should gather on a pitch on the Gaza Strip and play a game of rugby. Their supporters should sit among each other and drink beer (the non-alcoholic local brew Taybeh Golden Draught would seem a logical choice), cheer on their players, applaud the other mob and heckle the referee. Then they should head back to the clubhouse and thank each other for the game, knock over a few more Taybehs (not mentioning the beer’s slogan “Drink Palestinian — taste the revolution”) and swap mementos and yarns and tears without tear gas. Then some of them could, if it is their wont, hug and perhaps even kiss. And there you go: peace in the Middle East.

Geoff Hurrey isn’t thinking of war or peace or (the horror) non-alcoholic beer as he sits upon his tractor outside Clermont (population 2500), a central Queensland town three hours west of Mackay and as far from Gaza as Earth is to the Imperial Death Star. Hurrey, a wiry 54-year-old (who, decked out in monk robes, wouldn’t be laughed out of an Obi Wan Kenobi competition), is interrupted in his endeavours by a call from a man he doesn’t know.

“You don’t know me,” says the man before going on to speak of snow and rugby and helicopters and bushpigs. Like our rugby-driven Middle East peace process, it sounds fanciful, yet Hurrey is intrigued. A rugby player since he pulled on a boot in 1968, Hurrey is the tighthead prop for the Clermont Bushpigs rugby club. The more the man on the other end of the line speaks, the more Hurrey nods along. By the end the pair agrees: it’s a bloody great idea. They resolve to speak of this important matter again.

Jindabyne’s spirited Bushpig mascot fires-up.
Images: Matt Cleary

A few weeks previously in the Snowy Mountains, the man on the phone, Jindabyne Bushpigs coach Peter Abbott, is propping up the bar with pals in the Lake Jindabyne Hotel when he broaches the idea of the local rugby team taking on the Bushpigs of Queensland. In the way of these things, the more the beer flows and the more they kick it about, the more they too agree – it is a bloody great idea.

They’re further delighted to discover that the Bushpigs of Clermont are 25 years old; the Bushpigs of Jindabyne are 25 years old. Clermont won the premiership in 2008; Jindabyne won the premiership in 2008. Both clubs regularly travel four hours for games. And both clubs share players with local rugby league sides called Bears. This just has to be. And thus is born “Bushpig Origin”. New South Wales vs Queensland. Pig vs Pig. They don’t call it the Boar War, but they should.

Fast forward several months and Inside Sport is on the sideline of Jindabyne Oval, the highest rugby ground in the land. The Clermont players and supporters emerge from their mini-bus dressed in bush-rugby chic: caps and ties, Blundstone boots, RM Williams pants. The girls have ribbons in their hair, upturned collars and sleeveless jackets. The locals are an eclectic mix of racoon-tanned ski folk and farm types, some wild-haired and nipple-ringed, others in battered bush hats and flannelette shirts. Kids and dogs do what they like as mums drink thermos tea or wine from plastic. Beer sales are healthy – and the lads behind the jump are their own biggest customers.

The Jindabyne women’s team, the Miss Piggies (who opted for partying over playing their own game), are in similarly ebullient

mood and decked out in faux-cheerleader gear with bobbysocks and pompoms – as far from your American college girls as Kasey Chambers is to Miss Minneapolis.

Nothing short of remarkable pre-game entertainment comes in the form of a huge A109 helicopter which sweeps in low over the lake and lands mid-field before a policeman and navy rep emerge from its belly with the trophy. Through rugby acquaintances, the Royal Australian Navy has organised a training exercise around Bushpig Origin, something the ACT Brumbies – sponsored by the Navy – haven’t been able to get going at Canberra Stadium. The locals love it.

Soon enough we’re into the game. The game? In the way of bush rugby, it’s willing, unscientific, with sporadic flashes of skill. Mainly players get the ball under their arm and charge towards the other mob like marauders. Kicks are chased by a dozen madmen all out to mug the dill with the pill. The try of the match comes in the first half when Jindabyne’s Lucas Rixon – a skinny, quick, poor man’s Ewan McGrady – chases down a clearing kick wobbling in the wind. He’s rewarded with a bounce and sprints 50 metres to score in the corner as the 500-strong crowd roars him home.

The best duel of the day is between the backrows. Clermont’s big No. 8, Dane Lund, is oft-involved; several of the team’s “moves” being variations of “give the ball to Lundy”. Repelling his charges, though, is Jindy No. 8, 21-year-old Randwick grade player James Lloyd, who’ll be man-of-the-match. With Jindabyne’s bench emptying of willing warriors and the Clermont boys’ lungs burning in the thin high-country air, the locals triumph 19-3.

Afterwards songs are sung and cans broached before players converge on the pub, some still in boots. They swap framed jumpers and thanks before Clermont wins the boatrace drinking competition due to an 18-year-old human throat called Levi Rickertts. Afterwards we ask Rickertts how he honed his speed-drinking skills. He yells into our microphone, “Because that’s how we do it in the country!” Then he leaps onto the dance floor and gyrates like Matt Dunning after an ecstasy enema.

We cook a steak and the rugby talk flows with the beer and the Bundy. On the big screen the All Blacks and Wallabies are replaying the fourth Bledisloe Cup Test in Tokyo, but there’s little interest. People keep an eye on it, but the sound is off and it’s wallpaper; just another night match in an already packed season. These people love their rugby, but dead-rubber cash-grabs won’t be rammed down their throats.

Pig vs Pig Origin Images: Matt Cleary

And so the night continues apace and the journo’s notes get ever scrappier. There are lies, dancing and rum before a Miss Piggy rubs herself against a policewoman like Patrick Swayze getting down in Dirty Dancing. It’s a bit risque, but more larrikin act than provocation, and the coppers are smart enough to laugh it off. In our cities it might’ve been treated differently (it certainly would have in Gaza).

Late in the evening, through a sentimental haze of rum and rugby fraternity, I think of a typically eloquent piece of editorial penned by the late, great former editor of this magazine, Greg Hunter. Seeking to put sport in perspective following the crimes of 9/11, the Huntsman’s argument ended thus: “At the very least while people are playing sport they’re not killing each other. Maybe that’s enough.”

A bunch of bushies getting on the piss and playing footy is as far from war as the Taliban is from Oxford Street. And long may it be. Yet Bushpig Origin is about people connecting and forming friendships, for no other reason than it’s a good idea. For this the game of rugby can take credit. It has a global, grassroots fraternity that’s understood and embraced. Certainly these far-flung Bushpigs understand it. And they’ve created something good.

- Matt Cleary